No More Learning

The drones, as a rule, keep inside the hive; when they go
out of doors, they soar up in the air in a stream, whirling round
and round in a kind of gymnastic exercise; when this is over, they
come inside the hive and feed to repletion ravenously. The kings never
quit the hive, except in conjunction with the entire swarm, either for
food or for any other reason. They say that, if a young swarm go
astray, it will turn back upon its route and by the aid of scent
seek out its leader. It is said that if he is unable to fly he is
carried by the swarm, and that if he dies the swarm perishes; and
that, if this swarm outlives the king for a while and constructs
combs, no honey is produced and the bees soon die out.

Bees scramble up the stalks of flowers and rapidly gather the
bees-wax with their front legs; the front legs wipe it off on to the
middle legs, and these pass it on to the hollow curves of the
hind-legs; when thus laden, they fly away home, and one may see
plainly that their load is a heavy one. On each expedition the bee
does not fly from a flower of one kind to a flower of another, but
flies from one violet, say, to another violet, and never meddles
with another flower until it has got back to the hive; on reaching the
hive they throw off their load, and each bee on his return is
accompanied by three or four companions. One cannot well tell what
is the substance they gather, nor the exact process of their work.
Their mode of gathering wax has been observed on olive-trees, as owing
to the thickness of the leaves the bees remain stationary for a
considerable while. After this work is over, they attend to the grubs.
There is nothing to prevent grubs, honey, and drones being all found
in one and the same comb. As long as the leader is alive, the drones
are said to be produced apart by themselves; if he be no longer
living, they are said to be reared by the bees in their own cells, and
under these circumstances to become more spirited: for this reason
they are called 'sting-drones', not that they really have stings,
but that they have the wish without the power, to use such weapons.
The cells for the drones are larger than the others; sometimes the
bees construct cells for the drones apart, but usually they put them
in amongst their own; and when this is the case the bee-keepers cut
the drone-cells out of the combs.

There are several species of bees, as has been said; two of
'kings', the better kind red, the other black and variegated, and
twice as big as the working-bee. The best workingbee is small,
round, and speckled: another kind is long and like an anthrene wasp;
another kind is what is called the robber-bee, black and flat-bellied;
then there is the drone, the largest of all, but devoid of sting,
and lazy. There is a difference between the progeny of bees that
inhabit cultivated land and of those from the mountains: the
forest-bees are more shaggy, smaller, more industrious and more
fierce. Working-bees make their combs all even, with the superficial
covering quite smooth. Each comb is of one kind only: that is, it
contains either bees only, or grubs only, or drones only; if it
happen, however, that they make in one and the same comb all these
kinds of cells, each separate kind will be built in a continuous row
right through. The long bees build uneven combs, with the lids of
the cells protuberant, like those of the anthrene; grubs and
everything else have no fixed places, but are put anywhere; from these
bees come inferior kings, a large quantity of drones, and the
so-called robber-bee; they produce either no honey at all, or honey in
very small quantities. Bees brood over the combs and so mature them;
if they fail to do so, the combs are said to go bad and to get covered
with a sort of spider's web. If they can keep brooding over the part
undamaged, the damaged part simply eats itself away; if they cannot so
brood, the entire comb perishes; in the damaged combs small worms
are engendered, which take on wings and fly away. When the combs
keep settling down, the bees restore the level surface, and put
props underneath the combs to give themselves free passage-room; for
if such free passage be lacking they cannot brood, and the cobwebs
come on. When the robber-bee and the drone appear, not only do they do
no work themselves, but they actually damage the work of the other
bees; if they are caught in the act, they are killed by the
working-bees. These bees also kill without mercy most of their
kings, and especially kings of the inferior sort; and this they do for
fear a multiplicity of kings should lead to a dismemberment of the
hive. They kill them especially when the hive is deficient in grubs,
and a swarm is not intended to take place; under these circumstances
they destroy the cells of the kings if they have been prepared, on the
ground that these kings are always ready to lead out swarms. They
destroy also the combs of the drones if a failure in the supply be
threatening and the hive runs short of provisions; under such
circumstances they fight desperately with all who try to take their
honey, and eject from the hive all the resident drones; and oftentimes
the drones are to be seen sitting apart in the hive. The little bees
fight vigorously with the long kind, and try to banish them from the
hives; if they succeed, the hive will be unusually productive, but
if the bigger bees get left mistresses of the field they pass the time
in idleness, and no good at all but die out before the autumn.
Whenever the working-bees kill an enemy they try to do so out of
doors; and whenever one of their own body dies, they carry the dead
bee out of doors also. The so-called robber-bees spoil their own
combs, and, if they can do so unnoticed, enter and spoil the combs
of other bees; if they are caught in the act they are put to death. It
is no easy task for them to escape detection, for there are
sentinels on guard at every entry; and, even if they do escape
detection on entering, afterwards from a surfeit of food they cannot
fly, but go rolling about in front of the hive, so that their
chances of escape are small indeed. The kings are never themselves
seen outside the hive except with a swarm in flight: during which time
all the other bees cluster around them. When the flight of a swarm
is imminent, a monotonous and quite peculiar sound made by all the
bees is heard for several days, and for two or three days in advance a
few bees are seen flying round the hive; it has never as yet been
ascertained, owing to the difficulty of the observation, whether or no
the king is among these. When they have swarmed, they fly away and
separate off to each of the kings; if a small swarm happens to
settle near to a large one, it will shift to join this large one,
and if the king whom they have abandoned follows them, they put him to
death. So much for the quitting of the hive and the swarmflight.
Separate detachments of bees are told off for diverse operations; that
is, some carry flower-produce, others carry water, others smooth and
arrange the combs. A bee carries water when it is rearing grubs. No
bee ever settles on the flesh of any creature, or ever eats animal
food. They have no fixed date for commencing work; but when their
provender is forthcoming and they are in comfortable trim, and by
preference in summer, they set to work, and when the weather is fine
they work incessantly.

The bee, when quite young and in fact only three days old, after
shedding its chrysalis-case, begins to work if it be well fed. When
a swarm is settling, some bees detach themselves in search of food and
return back to the swarm. In hives that are in good condition the
production of young bees is discontinued only for the forty days
that follow the winter solstice. When the grubs are grown, the bees
put food beside them and cover them with a coating of wax; and, as
soon as the grub is strong enough, he of his own accord breaks the lid
and comes out. Creatures that make their appearance in hives and spoil
the combs the working-bees clear out, but the other bees from sheer
laziness look with indifference on damage done to their produce.
When the bee-masters take out the combs, they leave enough food behind
for winter use; if it be sufficient in quantity, the occupants of
the hive will survive; if it be insufficient, then, if the weather
be rough, they die on the spot, but if it be fair, they fly away and
desert the hive. They feed on honey summer and winter; but they
store up another article of food resembling wax in hardness, which
by some is called sandarace, or bee-bread. Their worst enemies are
wasps and the birds named titmice, and furthermore the swallow and the
bee-eater. The frogs in the marsh also catch them if they come in
their way by the water-side, and for this reason bee-keepers chase the
frogs from the ponds from which the bees take water; they destroy also
wasps' nests, and the nests of swallows, in the neighbourhood of the
hives, and also the nests of bee-eaters. Bees have fear only of one
another. They fight with one another and with wasps. Away from the
hive they attack neither their own species nor any other creature, but
in the close proximity of the hive they kill whatever they get hold
of. Bees that sting die from their inability to extract the sting
without at the same time extracting their intestines. True, they often
recover, if the person stung takes the trouble to press the sting out;
but once it loses its sting the bee must die. They can kill with their
stings even large animals; in fact, a horse has been known to have
been stung to death by them. The kings are the least disposed to
show anger or to inflict a sting. Bees that die are removed from the
hive, and in every way the creature is remarkable for its cleanly
habits; in point of fact, they often fly away to a distance to void
their excrement because it is malodorous; and, as has been said,
they are annoyed by all bad smells and by the scent of perfumes, so
much so that they sting people that use perfumes.

They perish from a number of accidental causes, and when their
kings become too numerous and try each to carry away a portion of
the swarm.

The toad also feeds on bees; he comes to the doorway of the
hive, puffs himself out as he sits on the watch, and devours the
creatures as they come flying out; the bees can in no way retaliate,
but the bee-keeper makes a point of killing him.

As for the class of bee that has been spoken of as inferior or
good-for-nothing, and as constructing its combs so roughly, some
bee-keepers say that it is the young bees that act so from
inexperience; and the bees of the current year are termed young. The
young bees do not sting as the others do; and it is for this reason
that swarms may be safely carried, as it is of young bees that they
are composed. When honey runs short they expel the drones, and the
bee-keepers supply the bees with figs and sweet-tasting articles of
food. The elder bees do the indoor work, and are rough and hairy
from staying indoors; the young bees do the outer carrying, and are
comparatively smooth. They kill the drones also when in their work
they are confined for room; the drones, by the way, live in the
innermost recess of the hive. On one occasion, when a hive was in a
poor condition, some of the occupants assailed a foreign hive; proving
victorious in a combat they took to carrying off the honey; when the
bee-keeper tried to kill them, the other bees came out and tried to
beat off the enemy but made no attempt to sting the man.

The diseases that chiefly attack prosperous hives are first of all
the clerus-this consists in a growth of little worms on the floor,
from which, as they develop, a kind of cobweb grows over the entire
hive, and the combs decay; another diseased condition is indicated
in a lassitude on the part of the bees and in malodorousness of the
hive. Bees feed on thyme; and the white thyme is better than the
red. In summer the place for the hive should be cool, and in winter
warm. They are very apt to fall sick if the plant they are at work
on be mildewed. In a high wind they carry a stone by way of ballast to
steady them. If a stream be near at hand, they drink from it and
from it only, but before they drink they first deposit their load;
if there be no water near at hand, they disgorge their honey as they
drink elsewhere, and at once make off to work. There are two seasons
for making honey, spring and autumn; the spring honey is sweeter,
whiter, and in every way better than the autumn honey. Superior
honey comes from fresh comb, and from young shoots; the red honey is
inferior, and owes its inferiority to the comb in which it is
deposited, just as wine is apt to be spoiled by its cask;
consequently, one should have it looked to and dried. When the thyme
is in flower and the comb is full, the honey does not harden. The
honey that is golden in hue is excellent. White honey does not come
from thyme pure and simple; it is good as a salve for sore eyes and
wounds. Poor honey always floats on the surface and should be
skimmed off; the fine clear honey rests below. When the floral world
is in full bloom, then they make wax; consequently you must then
take the wax out of the hive, for they go to work on new wax at
once. The flowers from which they gather honey are as follows: the
spindle-tree, the melilot-clover, king's-spear, myrtle,
flowering-reed, withy, and broom. When they work at thyme, they mix in
water before sealing up the comb. As has been already stated, they all
either fly to a distance to discharge their excrement or make the
discharge into one single comb. The little bees, as has been said, are
more industrious than the big ones; their wings are battered; their
colour is black, and they have a burnt-up aspect. Gaudy and showy
bees, like gaudy and showy women, are good-for-nothings.

Bees seem to take a pleasure in listening to a rattling noise; and
consequently men say that they can muster them into a hive by rattling
with crockery or stones; it is uncertain, however, whether or no
they can hear the noise at all and also whether their procedure is due
to pleasure or alarm. They expel from the hive all idlers and
unthrifts. As has been said, they differentiate their work; some
make wax, some make honey, some make bee-bread, some shape and mould
combs, some bring water to the cells and mingle it with the honey,
some engage in out-of-door work. At early dawn they make no noise,
until some one particular bee makes a buzzing noise two or three times
and thereby awakes the rest; hereupon they all fly in a body to
work. By and by they return and at first are noisy; then the noise
gradually decreases, until at last some one bee flies round about,
making a buzzing noise, and apparently calling on the others to go
to sleep; then all of a sudden there is a dead silence.

The hive is known to be in good condition if the noise heard
within it is loud, and if the bees make a flutter as they go out and
in; for at this time they are constructing brood-cells. They suffer
most from hunger when they recommence work after winter. They become
somewhat lazy if the bee-keeper, in robbing the hive, leave behind too
much honey; still one should leave cells numerous in proportion to the
population, for the bees work in a spiritless way if too few combs are
left. They become idle also, as being dispirited, if the hive be too
big. A hive yields to the bee-keeper six or nine pints of honey; a
prosperous hive will yield twelve or fifteen pints, exceptionally good
hives eighteen. Sheep and, as has been said, wasps are enemies to
the bees. Bee-keepers entrap the latter, by putting a flat dish on the
ground with pieces of meat on it; when a number of the wasps settle on
it, they cover them with a lid and put the dish and its contents on
the fire. It is a good thing to have a few drones in a hive, as
their presence increases the industry of the workers. Bees can tell
the approach of rough weather or of rain; and the proof is that they
will not fly away, but even while it is as yet fine they go fluttering
about within a restricted space, and the bee-keeper knows from this
that they are expecting bad weather. When the bees inside the hive
hang clustering to one another, it is a sign that the swarm is
intending to quit; consequently, occasion, when a bee-keepers, on
seeing this, besprinkle the hive with sweet wine. It is advisable to
plant about the hives pear-trees, beans, Median-grass, Syrian-grass,
yellow pulse, myrtle, poppies, creeping-thyme, and almond-trees.
Some bee-keepers sprinkle their bees with flour, and can distinguish
them from others when they are at work out of doors. If the spring
be late, or if there be drought or blight, then grubs are all the
fewer in the hives. So much for the habits of bees.

41

Of wasps, there are two kinds. Of these kinds one is wild and
scarce, lives on the mountains, engenders grubs not underground but on
oak-trees, is larger, longer, and blacker than the other kind, is
invariably speckled and furnished with a sting, and is remarkably
courageous. The pain from its sting is more severe than that caused by
the others, for the instrument that causes the pain is larger, in
proportion to its own larger size. These wild live over into a
second year, and in winter time, when oaks have been in course of
felling, they may be seen coming out and flying away. They lie
concealed during the winter, and live in the interior of logs of wood.
Some of them are mother-wasps and some are workers, as with the
tamer kind; but it is by observation of the tame wasps that one may
learn the varied characteristics of the mothers and the workers. For
in the case of the tame wasps also there are two kinds; one consists
of leaders, who are called mothers, and the other of workers. The
leaders are far larger and milder-tempered than the others. The
workers do not live over into a second year, but all die when winter
comes on; and this can be proved, for at the commencement of winter
the workers become drowsy, and about the time of the winter solstice
they are never seen at all. The leaders, the so-called mothers, are
seen all through the winter, and live in holes underground; for men
when ploughing or digging in winter have often come upon mother-wasps,
but never upon workers. The mode of reproduction of wasps is as
follows. At the approach of summer, when the leaders have found a
sheltered spot, they take to moulding their combs, and construct the
so-called sphecons,-little nests containing four cells or thereabouts,
and in these are produced working-wasps but not mothers. When these
are grown up, then they construct other larger combs upon the first,
and then again in like manner others; so that by the close of autumn
there are numerous large combs in which the leader, the so-called
mother, engenders no longer working-wasps but mothers. These develop
high up in the nest as large grubs, in cells that occur in groups of
four or rather more, pretty much in the same way as we have seen the
grubs of the king-bees to be produced in their cells. After the
birth of the working-grubs in the cells, the leaders do nothing and
the workers have to supply them with nourishment; and this is inferred
from the fact that the leaders (of the working-wasps) no longer fly
out at this time, but rest quietly indoors. Whether the leaders of
last year after engendering new leaders are killed by the new brood,
and whether this occurs invariably or whether they can live for a
longer time, has not been ascertained by actual observation; neither
can we speak with certainty, as from observation, as to the age
attained by the mother-wasp or by the wild wasps, or as to any other
similar phenomenon. The mother-wasp is broad and heavy, fatter and
larger than the ordinary wasp, and from its weight not very strong
on the wing; these wasps cannot fly far, and for this reason they
always rest inside the nest, building and managing its indoor
arrangements. The so-called mother-wasps are found in most of the
nests; it is a matter of doubt whether or no they are provided with
stings; in all probability, like the king-bees, they have stings,
but never protrude them for offence. Of the ordinary wasps some are
destitute of stings, like the drone-bees, and some are provided with
them. Those unprovided therewith are smaller and less spirited and
never fight, while the others are big and courageous; and these
latter, by some, are called males, and the stingless, females. At
the approach of winter many of the wasps that have stings appear to
lose them; but we have never met an eyewitness of this phenomenon.
Wasps are more abundant in times of drought and in wild localities.
They live underground; their combs they mould out of chips and
earth, each comb from a single origin, like a kind of root. They
feed on certain flowers and fruits, but for the most part on animal
food. Some of the tame wasps have been observed when sexually
united, but it was not determined whether both, or neither, had
stings, or whether one had a sting and the other had not; wild wasps
have been seen under similar circumstances, when one was seen to
have a sting but the case of the other was left undetermined. The
wasp-grub does not appear to come into existence by parturition, for
at the outset the grub is too big to be the offspring of a wasp. If
you take a wasp by the feet and let him buzz with the vibration of his
wings, wasps that have no stings will fly toward it, and wasps that
have stings will not; from which fact it is inferred by some that
one set are males and the other females. In holes in the ground in
winter-time wasps are found, some with stings, and some without.
Some build cells, small and few in number; others build many and large
ones. The so-called mothers are caught at the change of season, mostly
on elm-trees, while gathering a substance sticky and gumlike. A
large number of mother-wasps are found when in the previous year wasps
have been numerous and the weather rainy; they are captured in
precipitous places, or in vertical clefts in the ground, and they
all appear to be furnished with stings.

42

So much for the habits of wasps.

Anthrenae do not subsist by culling from flowers as bees do, but
for the most part on animal food: for this reason they hover about
dung; for they chase the large flies, and after catching them lop
off their heads and fly away with the rest of the carcases; they are
furthermore fond of sweet fruits. Such is their food. They have also
kings or leaders like bees and wasps; and their leaders are larger
in proportion to themselves than are wasp-kings to wasps or
bee-kings to bees. The anthrena-king, like the wasp-king, lives
indoors. Anthrenae build their nests underground, scraping out the
soil like ants; for neither anthrenae nor wasps go off in swarms as
bees do, but successive layers of young anthrenae keep to the same
habitat, and go on enlarging their nest by scraping out more and
more of soil. The nest accordingly attains a great size; in fact, from
a particularly prosperous nest have been removed three and even four
baskets full of combs. They do not, like bees, store up food, but pass
the winter in a torpid condition; the greater part of them die in
the winter, but it is uncertain whether that can be said of them
all, In the hives of bees several kings are found and they lead off
detachments in swarms, but in the anthrena's nest only one king is
found. When individual anthrenae have strayed from their nest, they
cluster on a tree and construct combs, as may be often seen
above-ground, and in this nest they produce a king; when the king is
full-grown, he leads them away and settles them along with himself
in a hive or nest. With regard to their sexual unions, and the
method of their reproduction, nothing is known from actual
observation. Among bees both the drones and the kings are stingless,
and so are certain wasps, as has been said; but anthrenae appear to be
all furnished with stings: though, by the way, it would well be
worth while to carry out investigation as to whether the anthrena-king
has a sting or not.

43

Humble-bees produce their young under a stone, right on the
ground, in a couple of cells or little more; in these cells is found
an attempt at honey, of a poor description. The tenthredon is like the
anthrena, but speckled, and about as broad as a bee. Being epicures as
to their food, they fly, one at a time, into kitchens and on to slices
of fish and the like dainties. The tenthredon brings forth, like the
wasp, underground, and is very prolific; its nest is much bigger and
longer than that of the wasp. So much for the methods of working and
the habits of life of the bee, the wasp, and all the other similar
insects.

44

As regards the disposition or temper of animals, as has been
previously observed, one may detect great differences in respect to
courage and timidity, as also, even among wild animals, in regard to
tameness and wildness. The lion, while he is eating, is most
ferocious; but when he is not hungry and has had a good meal, he is
quite gentle. He is totally devoid of suspicion or nervous fear, is
fond of romping with animals that have been reared along with him
and to whom he is accustomed, and manifests great affection towards
them. In the chase, as long as he is in view, he makes no attempt to
run and shows no fear, but even if he be compelled by the multitude of
the hunters to retreat, he withdraws deliberately, step by step, every
now and then turning his head to regard his pursuers. If, however,
he reach wooded cover, then he runs at full speed, until he comes to
open ground, when he resumes his leisurely retreat. When, in the open,
he is forced by the number of the hunters to run while in full view,
he does run at the top of his speed, but without leaping and bounding.
This running of his is evenly and continuously kept up like the
running of a dog; but when he is in pursuit of his prey and is close
behind, he makes a sudden pounce upon it. The two statements made
regarding him are quite true; the one that he is especially afraid
of fire, as Homer pictures him in the line-'and glowing torches,
which, though fierce he dreads,'-and the other, that he keeps a steady
eye upon the hunter who hits him, and flings himself upon him. If a
hunter hit him, without hurting him, then if with a bound he gets hold
of him, he will do him no harm, not even with his claws, but after
shaking him and giving him a fright will let him go again. They invade
the cattle-folds and attack human beings when they are grown old and
so by reason of old age and the diseased condition of their teeth
are unable to pursue their wonted prey. They live to a good old age.
The lion who was captured when lame, had a number of his teeth broken;
which fact was regarded by some as a proof of the longevity of
lions, as he could hardly have been reduced to this condition except
at an advanced age. There are two species of lions, the plump,
curly-maned, and the long-bodied, straight maned; the latter kind is
courageous, and the former comparatively timid; sometimes they run
away with their tail between their legs, like a dog. A lion was once
seen to be on the point of attacking a boar, but to run away when
the boar stiffened his bristles in defence. It is susceptible of
hurt from a wound in the flank, but on any other part of its frame
will endure any number of blows, and its head is especially hard.
Whenever it inflicts a wound, either by its teeth or its claws,
there flows from the wounded parts suppurating matter, quite yellow,
and not to be stanched by bandage or sponge; the treatment for such
a wound is the same as that for the bite of a dog.

The thos, or civet, is fond of man's company; it does him no
harm and is not much afraid of him, but it is an enemy to the dog
and the lion, and consequently is not found in the same habitat with
them. The little ones are the best. Some say that there are two
species of the animal, and some say, three; there are probably not
more than three, but, as is the case with certain of the fishes,
birds, and quadrupeds, this animal changes in appearance with the
change of season. His colour in winter is not the same as it is in
summer; in summer the animal is smooth-haired, in winter he is clothed
in fur.

45

The bison is found in Paeonia on Mount Messapium, which
separates Paeonia from Maedica; and the Paeonians call it the monapos.
It is the size of a bull, but stouter in build, and not long in the
body; its skin, stretched tight on a frame, would give sitting room
for seven people. In general it resembles the ox in appearance, except
that it has a mane that reaches down to the point of the shoulder,
as that of the horse reaches down to its withers; but the hair in
its mane is softer than the hair in the horse's mane, and clings
more closely. The colour of the hair is brown-yellow; the mane reaches
down to the eyes, and is deep and thick. The colour of the body is
half red, half ashen-grey, like that of the so-called chestnut
horse, but rougher. It has an undercoat of woolly hair. The animal
is not found either very black or very red. It has the bellow of a
bull. Its horns are crooked, turned inwards towards each other and
useless for purposes of self-defence; they are a span broad, or a
little more, and in volume each horn would hold about three pints of
liquid; the black colour of the horn is beautiful and bright. The tuft
of hair on the forehead reaches down to the eyes, so that the animal
sees objects on either flank better than objects right in front. It
has no upper teeth, as is the case also with kine and all other horned
animals. Its legs are hairy; it is cloven-footed, and the tail,
which resembles that of the ox, seems not big enough for the size of
its body. It tosses up dust and scoops out the ground with its hooves,
like the bull. Its skin is impervious to blows. Owing to the savour of
its flesh it is sought for in the chase. When it is wounded it runs
away, and stops only when thoroughly exhausted. It defends itself
against an assailant by kicking and projecting its excrement to a
distance of eight yards; this device it can easily adopt over and over
again, and the excrement is so pungent that the hair of hunting-dogs
is burnt off by it. It is only when the animal is disturbed or alarmed
that the dung has this property; when the animal is undisturbed it has
no blistering effect. So much for the shape and habits of the
animal. When the season comes for parturition the mothers give birth
to their young in troops upon the mountains. Before dropping their
young they scatter their dung in all directions, making a kind of
circular rampart around them; for the animal has the faculty of
ejecting excrement in most extraordinary quantities.

46

Of all wild animals the most easily tamed and the gentlest is
the elephant. It can be taught a number of tricks, the drift and
meaning of which it understands; as, for instance, it can taught to
kneel in presence of the king. It is very sensitive, and possessed
of an intelligence superior to that of other animals. When the male
has had sexual union with the female, and the female has conceived,
the male has no further intercourse with her.

Some say that the elephant lives for two hundred years;
others, for one hundred and twenty; that the female lives nearly as
long as the male; that they reach their prime about the age of
sixty, and that they are sensitive to inclement weather and frost. The
elephant is found by the banks of rivers, but he is not a river
animal; he can make his way through water, as long as the tip of his
trunk can be above the surface, for he blows with his trunk and
breathes through it. The animal is a poor swimmer owing to the heavy
weight of his body.

47

The male camel declines intercourse with its mother; if his keeper
tries compulsion, he evinces disinclination. On one occasion, when
intercourse was being declined by the young male, the keeper covered
over the mother and put the young male to her; but, when after the
intercourse the wrapping had been removed, though the operation was
completed and could not be revoked, still by and by he bit his
keeper to death. A story goes that the king of Scythia had a
highly-bred mare, and that all her foals were splendid; that wishing
to mate the best of the young males with the mother, he had him
brought to the stall for the purpose; that the young horse declined;
that, after the mother's head had been concealed in a wrapper he, in
ignorance, had intercourse; and that, when immediately afterwards
the wrapper was removed and the head of the mare was rendered visible,
the young horse ran way and hurled himself down a precipice.

48

Among the sea-fishes many stories are told about the dolphin,
indicative of his gentle and kindly nature, and of manifestations of
passionate attachment to boys, in and about Tarentum, Caria, and other
places. The story goes that, after a dolphin had been caught and
wounded off the coast of Caria, a shoal of dolphins came into the
harbour and stopped there until the fisherman let his captive go free;
whereupon the shoal departed. A shoal of young dolphins is always,
by way of protection, followed by a large one.
On one occasion a shoal
of dolphins, large and small, was seen, and two dolphins at a little
distance appeared swimming in underneath a little dead dolphin when it
was sinking, and supporting it on their backs, trying out of
compassion to prevent its being devoured by some predaceous fish.
Incredible stories are told regarding the rapidity of movement of this
creature. It appears to be the fleetest of all animals, marine and
terrestrial, and it can leap over the masts of large vessels. This
speed is chiefly manifested when they are pursuing a fish for food;
then, if the fish endeavours to escape, they pursue him in their
ravenous hunger down to deep waters; but, when the necessary return
swim is getting too long, they hold in their breath, as though
calculating the length of it, and then draw themselves together for an
effort and shoot up like arrows, trying to make the long ascent
rapidly in order to breathe, and in the effort they spring right
over the a ship's masts if a ship be in the vicinity. This same
phenomenon is observed in divers, when they have plunged into deep
water; that is, they pull themselves together and rise with a speed
proportional to their strength. Dolphins live together in pairs,
male and female. It is not known for what reason they run themselves
aground on dry land; at all events, it is said that they do so at
times, and for no obvious reason.

49

Just as with all animals a change of action follows a change
of circumstance, so also a change of character follows a change of
action, and often some portions of the physical frame undergo a
change, occurs in the case of birds. Hens, for instance, when they
have beaten the cock in a fight, will crow like the cock and endeavour
to tread him; the crest rises up on their head and the tail-feathers
on the rump, so that it becomes difficult to recognize that they are
hens; in some cases there is a growth of small spurs. On the death
of a hen a cock has been seen to undertake the maternal duties,
leading the chickens about and providing them with food, and so intent
upon these duties as to cease crowing and indulging his sexual
propensities. Some cock-birds are congenitally so feminine that they
will submit patiently to other males who attempt to tread them.

50

Some animals change their form and character, not only at
certain ages and at certain seasons, but in consequence of being
castrated; and all animals possessed of testicles may be submitted
to this operation. Birds have their testicles inside, and oviparous
quadrupeds close to the loins; and of viviparous animals that walk
some have them inside, and most have them outside, but all have them
at the lower end of the belly. Birds are castrated at the rump at
the part where the two sexes unite in copulation. If you burn this
twice or thrice with hot irons, then, if the bird be full-grown, his
crest grows sallow, he ceases to crow, and foregoes sexual passion;
but if you cauterize the bird when young, none of these male
attributes propensities will come to him as he grows up. The case is
the same with men: if you mutilate them in boyhood, the
later-growing hair never comes, and the voice never changes but
remains high-pitched; if they be mutilated in early manhood, the
late growths of hair quit them except the growth on the groin, and
that diminishes but does not entirely depart. The congenital growths
of hair never fall out, for a eunuch never grows bald. In the case
of all castrated or mutilated male quadrupeds the voice changes to the
feminine voice. All other quadrupeds when castrated, unless the
operation be performed when they are young, invariably die; but in the
case of boars, and in their case only, the age at which the
operation is performed produces no difference. All animals, if
operated on when they are young, become bigger and better looking than
their unmutilated fellows; if they be mutilated when full-grown,
they do not take on any increase of size. If stags be mutilated, when,
by reason of their age, they have as yet no horns, they never grow
horns at all; if they be mutilated when they have horns, the horns
remain unchanged in size, and the animal does not lose them. Calves
are mutilated when a year old; otherwise, they turn out uglier and
smaller. Steers are mutilated in the following way: they turn the
animal over on its back, cut a little off the scrotum at the lower
end, and squeeze out the testicles, then push back the roots of them
as far as they can, and stop up the incision with hair to give an
outlet to suppurating matter; if inflammation ensues, they cauterize
the scrotum and put on a plaster. If a full-grown bull be mutilated,
he can still to all appearance unite sexually with the cow. The
ovaries of sows are excised with the view of quenching in them
sexual appetites and of stimulating growth in size and fatness. The
sow has first to be kept two days without food, and, after being
hung up by the hind legs, it is operated on; they cut the lower belly,
about the place where the boars have their testicles, for it is
there that the ovary grows, adhering to the two divisions (or horns)
of the womb; they cut off a little piece and stitch up the incision.
Female camels are mutilated when they are wanted for war purposes, and
are mutilated to prevent their being got with young. Some of the
inhabitants of Upper Asia have as many as three thousand camels:
when they run, they run, in consequence of the length of their stride,
much quicker than the horses of Nisaea. As a general rule, mutilated
animals grow to a greater length than the unmutilated.

All animals that ruminate derive profit and pleasure from the
process of rumination, as they do from the process of eating. It is
the animals that lack the upper teeth that ruminate, such as kine,
sheep, and goats. In the case of wild animals no observation has
been possible; save in the case of animals that are occasionally
domesticated, such as the stag, and it, we know, chews the cud. All
animals that ruminate generally do so when lying down on the ground.
They carry on the process to the greatest extent in winter, and
stall-fed ruminants carry it on for about seven months in the year;
beasts that go in herds, as they get their food out of doors, ruminate
to a lesser degree and over a lesser period. Some, also, of the
animals that have teeth in both jaws ruminate; as, for instance, the
Pontic mice, and the fish which from the habit is by some called
'the Ruminant', (as well as other fish).

Long-limbed animals have loose faeces, and broad-chested animals
vomit with comparative facility, and these remarks are, in a general
way, applicable to quadrupeds, birds, and men.

49B

A considerable number of birds change according to season the
colour of their plumage and their note; as, for instance, the owsel
becomes yellow instead of black, and its note gets altered, for in
summer it has a musical note and in winter a discordant chatter. The
thrush also changes its colour; about the throat it is marked in
winter with speckles like a starling, in summer distinctly spotted:
however, it never alters its note. The nightingale, when the hills are
taking on verdure, sings continually for fifteen days and fifteen
nights; afterwards it sings, but not continuously. As summer
advances it has a different song, not so varied as before, nor so
deep, nor so intricately modulated, but simple; it also changes its
colour, and in Italy about this season it goes by a different name. It
goes into hiding, and is consequently visible only for a brief period.

The erithacus (or redbreast) and the so-called redstart change into
one another; the former is a winter bird, the latter a summer one, and
the difference between them is practically limited to the coloration
of their plumage. In the same way with the beccafico and the blackcap;
these change into one another. The beccafico appears about autumn, and
the blackcap as soon as autumn has ended. These birds, also, differ
from one another only in colour and note; that these birds, two in
name, are one in reality is proved by the fact that at the period when
the change is in progress each one has been seen with the change as
yet incomplete. It is not so very strange that in these cases there is
a change in note and in plumage, for even the ring-dove ceases to
coo in winter, and recommences cooing when spring comes in; in winter,
however, when fine weather has succeeded to very stormy weather,
this bird has been known to give its cooing note, to the
astonishment of such as were acquainted with its usual winter silence.
As a general rule, birds sing most loudly and most diversely in the
pairing season. The cuckoo changes its colour, and its note is not
clearly heard for a short time previous to its departure. It departs
about the rising of the Dog-star, and it reappears from springtime
to the rising of the Dog-star. At the rise of this star the bird
called by some oenanthe disappears, and reappears when it is
setting: thus keeping clear at one time of extreme cold, and at
another time of extreme heat. The hoopoe also changes its colour and
appearance, as Aeschylus has represented in the following lines:-

The Hoopoe, witness to his own distress,

Is clad by Zeus in variable dress:-

Now a gay mountain-bird, with knightly crest,

Now in the white hawk's silver plumage drest,

For, timely changing, on the hawk's white wing

He greets the apparition of the Spring.

Thus twofold form and colour are conferred,

In youth and age, upon the selfsame bird.

The spangled raiment marks his youthful days,

The argent his maturity displays;

And when the fields are yellow with ripe corn

Again his particoloured plumes are worn.

But evermore, in sullen discontent,

He seeks the lonely hills, in self-sought banishment.

Of birds, some take a dust-bath by rolling in dust, some take
a water-bath, and some take neither the one bath nor the other.
Birds that do not fly but keep on the ground take the dust-bath, as
for instance the hen, the partridge, the francolin, the crested
lark, the pheasant; some of the straight-taloned birds, and such as
live on the banks of a river, in marshes, or by the sea, take a
water-bath; some birds take both the dust-bath and the waterbath, as
for instance the pigeon and the sparrow; of the crooked-taloned
birds the greater part take neither the one bath nor the other. So
much for the ways of the above-mentioned, but some birds have a
peculiar habit of making a noise at their hinder quarters, as, for
instance, the turtle-dove; and they make a violent movement of their
tails at the same time that they produce this peculiar sound.

-THE END-
.

350 BC

NICOMACHEAN ETHICS

by Aristotle

translated by W. D. Ross

BOOK I

1

EVERY art and every inquiry, and similarly every action and pursuit,
is thought to aim at some good; and for this reason the good has
rightly been declared to be that at which all things aim. But a
certain difference is found among ends; some are activities, others
are products apart from the activities that produce them. Where
there are ends apart from the actions, it is the nature of the
products to be better than the activities. Now, as there are many
actions, arts, and sciences, their ends also are many; the end of
the medical art is health, that of shipbuilding a vessel, that of
strategy victory, that of economics wealth. But where such arts fall
under a single capacity- as bridle-making and the other arts concerned
with the equipment of horses fall under the art of riding, and this
and every military action under strategy, in the same way other arts
fall under yet others- in all of these the ends of the master arts
are to be preferred to all the subordinate ends; for it is for the
sake of the former that the latter are pursued. It makes no difference
whether the activities themselves are the ends of the actions, or
something else apart from the activities, as in the case of the
sciences just mentioned.

2

If, then, there is some end of the things we do, which we desire for
its own sake (everything else being desired for the sake of this), and
if we do not choose everything for the sake of something else (for
at that rate the process would go on to infinity, so that our desire
would be empty and vain), clearly this must be the good and the
chief good. Will not the knowledge of it, then, have a great influence
on life? Shall we not, like archers who have a mark to aim at, be more
likely to hit upon what is right? If so, we must try, in outline at
least, to determine what it is, and of which of the sciences or
capacities it is the object. It would seem to belong to the most
authoritative art and that which is most truly the master art. And
politics appears to be of this nature; for it is this that ordains
which of the sciences should be studied in a state, and which each
class of citizens should learn and up to what point they should
learn them; and we see even the most highly esteemed of capacities
to fall under this, e. g. strategy, economics, rhetoric; now, since
politics uses the rest of the sciences, and since, again, it
legislates as to what we are to do and what we are to abstain from,
the end of this science must include those of the others, so that this
end must be the good for man. For even if the end is the same for a
single man and for a state, that of the state seems at all events
something greater and more complete whether to attain or to
preserve; though it is worth while to attain the end merely for one
man, it is finer and more godlike to attain it for a nation or for
city-states. These, then, are the ends at which our inquiry aims,
since it is political science, in one sense of that term.

3

Our discussion will be adequate if it has as much clearness as the
subject-matter admits of, for precision is not to be sought for
alike in all discussions, any more than in all the products of the
crafts. Now fine and just actions, which political science
investigates, admit of much variety and fluctuation of opinion, so
that they may be thought to exist only by convention, and not by
nature. And goods also give rise to a similar fluctuation because they
bring harm to many people; for before now men have been undone by
reason of their wealth, and others by reason of their courage. We must
be content, then, in speaking of such subjects and with such premisses
to indicate the truth roughly and in outline, and in speaking about
things which are only for the most part true and with premisses of the
same kind to reach conclusions that are no better. In the same spirit,
therefore, should each type of statement be received; for it is the
mark of an educated man to look for precision in each class of
things just so far as the nature of the subject admits; it is
evidently equally foolish to accept probable reasoning from a
mathematician and to demand from a rhetorician scientific proofs.

Now each man judges well the things he knows, and of these he is a
good judge. And so the man who has been educated in a subject is a
good judge of that subject, and the man who has received an
all-round education is a good judge in general. Hence a young man is
not a proper hearer of lectures on political science; for he is
inexperienced in the actions that occur in life, but its discussions
start from these and are about these; and, further, since he tends
to follow his passions, his study will be vain and unprofitable,
because the end aimed at is not knowledge but action. And it makes
no difference whether he is young in years or youthful in character;
the defect does not depend on time, but on his living, and pursuing
each successive object, as passion directs. For to such persons, as to
the incontinent, knowledge brings no profit; but to those who desire
and act in accordance with a rational principle knowledge about such
matters will be of great benefit.

These remarks about the student, the sort of treatment to be
expected, and the purpose of the inquiry, may be taken as our preface.

4

Let us resume our inquiry and state, in view of the fact that all
knowledge and every pursuit aims at some good, what it is that we
say political science aims at and what is the highest of all goods
achievable by action. Verbally there is very general agreement; for
both the general run of men and people of superior refinement say that
it is happiness, and identify living well and doing well with being
happy; but with regard to what happiness is they differ, and the
many do not give the same account as the wise. For the former think it
is some plain and obvious thing, like pleasure, wealth, or honour;
they differ, however, from one another- and often even the same man
identifies it with different things, with health when he is ill,
with wealth when he is poor; but, conscious of their ignorance, they
admire those who proclaim some great ideal that is above their
comprehension. Now some thought that apart from these many goods there
is another which is self-subsistent and causes the goodness of all
these as well. To examine all the opinions that have been held were
perhaps somewhat fruitless; enough to examine those that are most
prevalent or that seem to be arguable.

Let us not fail to notice, however, that there is a difference
between arguments from and those to the first principles. For Plato,
too, was right in raising this question and asking, as he used to
do, 'are we on the way from or to the first principles? ' There is a
difference, as there is in a race-course between the course from the
judges to the turning-point and the way back. For, while we must begin
with what is known, things are objects of knowledge in two senses-
some to us, some without qualification. Presumably, then, we must
begin with things known to us. Hence any one who is to listen
intelligently to lectures about what is noble and just, and generally,
about the subjects of political science must have been brought up in
good habits. For the fact is the starting-point, and if this is
sufficiently plain to him, he will not at the start need the reason as
well; and the man who has been well brought up has or can easily get
startingpoints. And as for him who neither has nor can get them, let
him hear the words of Hesiod:

Far best is he who knows all things himself;

Good, he that hearkens when men counsel right;

But he who neither knows, nor lays to heart

Another's wisdom, is a useless wight.

5

Let us, however, resume our discussion from the point at which we
digressed. To judge from the lives that men lead, most men, and men of
the most vulgar type, seem (not without some ground) to identify the
good, or happiness, with pleasure; which is the reason why they love
the life of enjoyment. For there are, we may say, three prominent
types of life- that just mentioned, the political, and thirdly the
contemplative life. Now the mass of mankind are evidently quite
slavish in their tastes, preferring a life suitable to beasts, but
they get some ground for their view from the fact that many of those
in high places share the tastes of Sardanapallus. A consideration of
the prominent types of life shows that people of superior refinement
and of active disposition identify happiness with honour; for this is,
roughly speaking, the end of the political life. But it seems too
superficial to be what we are looking for, since it is thought to
depend on those who bestow honour rather than on him who receives
it, but the good we divine to be something proper to a man and not
easily taken from him. Further, men seem to pursue honour in order
that they may be assured of their goodness; at least it is by men of
practical wisdom that they seek to be honoured, and among those who
know them, and on the ground of their virtue; clearly, then, according
to them, at any rate, virtue is better. And perhaps one might even
suppose this to be, rather than honour, the end of the political life.
But even this appears somewhat incomplete; for possession of virtue
seems actually compatible with being asleep, or with lifelong
inactivity, and, further, with the greatest sufferings and
misfortunes; but a man who was living so no one would call happy,
unless he were maintaining a thesis at all costs. But enough of
this; for the subject has been sufficiently treated even in the
current discussions. Third comes the contemplative life, which we
shall consider later.

The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and
wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely
useful and for the sake of something else. And so one might rather
take the aforenamed objects to be ends; for they are loved for
themselves. But it is evident that not even these are ends; yet many
arguments have been thrown away in support of them. Let us leave
this subject, then.

6

We had perhaps better consider the universal good and discuss
thoroughly what is meant by it, although such an inquiry is made an
uphill one by the fact that the Forms have been introduced by
friends of our own. Yet it would perhaps be thought to be better,
indeed to be our duty, for the sake of maintaining the truth even to
destroy what touches us closely, especially as we are philosophers
or lovers of wisdom; for, while both are dear, piety requires us to
honour truth above our friends.

The men who introduced this doctrine did not posit Ideas of
classes within which they recognized priority and posteriority
(which is the reason why they did not maintain the existence of an
Idea embracing all numbers); but the term 'good' is used both in the
category of substance and in that of quality and in that of
relation, and that which is per se, i. e. substance, is prior in nature
to the relative (for the latter is like an off shoot and accident of
being); so that there could not be a common Idea set over all these
goods. Further, since 'good' has as many senses as 'being' (for it
is predicated both in the category of substance, as of God and of
reason, and in quality, i. e. of the virtues, and in quantity, i. e.
of that which is moderate, and in relation, i. e. of the useful, and in
time, i. e. of the right opportunity, and in place, i. e. of the right
locality and the like), clearly it cannot be something universally
present in all cases and single; for then it could not have been
predicated in all the categories but in one only. Further, since of
the things answering to one Idea there is one science, there would
have been one science of all the goods; but as it is there are many
sciences even of the things that fall under one category, e. g. of
opportunity, for opportunity in war is studied by strategics and in
disease by medicine, and the moderate in food is studied by medicine
and in exercise by the science of gymnastics. And one might ask the
question, what in the world they mean by 'a thing itself', is (as is
the case) in 'man himself' and in a particular man the account of
man is one and the same. For in so far as they are man, they will in
no respect differ; and if this is so, neither will 'good itself' and
particular goods, in so far as they are good. But again it will not be
good any the more for being eternal, since that which lasts long is no
whiter than that which perishes in a day. The Pythagoreans seem to
give a more plausible account of the good, when they place the one
in the column of goods; and it is they that Speusippus seems to have
followed.

But let us discuss these matters elsewhere; an objection to what
we have said, however, may be discerned in the fact that the
Platonists have not been speaking about all goods, and that the
goods that are pursued and loved for themselves are called good by
reference to a single Form, while those which tend to produce or to
preserve these somehow or to prevent their contraries are called so by
reference to these, and in a secondary sense. Clearly, then, goods
must be spoken of in two ways, and some must be good in themselves,
the others by reason of these. Let us separate, then, things good in
themselves from things useful, and consider whether the former are
called good by reference to a single Idea. What sort of goods would
one call good in themselves? Is it those that are pursued even when
isolated from others, such as intelligence, sight, and certain
pleasures and honours? Certainly, if we pursue these also for the sake
of something else, yet one would place them among things good in
themselves. Or is nothing other than the Idea of good good in
itself? In that case the Form will be empty. But if the things we have
named are also things good in themselves, the account of the good will
have to appear as something identical in them all, as that of
whiteness is identical in snow and in white lead. But of honour,
wisdom, and pleasure, just in respect of their goodness, the
accounts are distinct and diverse. The good, therefore, is not some
common element answering to one Idea.

But what then do we mean by the good? It is surely not like the
things that only chance to have the same name. Are goods one, then, by
being derived from one good or by all contributing to one good, or are
they rather one by analogy? Certainly as sight is in the body, so is
reason in the soul, and so on in other cases. But perhaps these
subjects had better be dismissed for the present; for perfect
precision about them would be more appropriate to another branch of
philosophy. And similarly with regard to the Idea; even if there is
some one good which is universally predicable of goods or is capable
of separate and independent existence, clearly it could not be
achieved or attained by man; but we are now seeking something
attainable. Perhaps, however, some one might think it worth while to
recognize this with a view to the goods that are attainable and
achievable; for having this as a sort of pattern we shall know
better the goods that are good for us, and if we know them shall
attain them. This argument has some plausibility, but seems to clash
with the procedure of the sciences; for all of these, though they
aim at some good and seek to supply the deficiency of it, leave on one
side the knowledge of the good. Yet that all the exponents of the arts
should be ignorant of, and should not even seek, so great an aid is
not probable. It is hard, too, to see how a weaver or a carpenter will
be benefited in regard to his own craft by knowing this 'good itself',
or how the man who has viewed the Idea itself will be a better
doctor or general thereby. For a doctor seems not even to study health
in this way, but the health of man, or perhaps rather the health of
a particular man; it is individuals that he is healing. But enough
of these topics.

7

Let us again return to the good we are seeking, and ask what it
can be. It seems different in different actions and arts; it is
different in medicine, in strategy, and in the other arts likewise.
What then is the good of each? Surely that for whose sake everything
else is done. In medicine this is health, in strategy victory, in
architecture a house, in any other sphere something else, and in every
action and pursuit the end; for it is for the sake of this that all
men do whatever else they do. Therefore, if there is an end for all
that we do, this will be the good achievable by action, and if there
are more than one, these will be the goods achievable by action.

So the argument has by a different course reached the same point;
but we must try to state this even more clearly. Since there are
evidently more than one end, and we choose some of these (e. g. wealth,
flutes, and in general instruments) for the sake of something else,
clearly not all ends are final ends; but the chief good is evidently
something final. Therefore, if there is only one final end, this
will be what we are seeking, and if there are more than one, the
most final of these will be what we are seeking. Now we call that
which is in itself worthy of pursuit more final than that which is
worthy of pursuit for the sake of something else, and that which is
never desirable for the sake of something else more final than the
things that are desirable both in themselves and for the sake of
that other thing, and therefore we call final without qualification
that which is always desirable in itself and never for the sake of
something else.

Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for
this we choose always for self and never for the sake of something
else, but honour, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose
indeed for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them we should
still choose each of them), but we choose them also for the sake of
happiness, judging that by means of them we shall be happy. Happiness,
on the other hand, no one chooses for the sake of these, nor, in
general, for anything other than itself.

From the point of view of self-sufficiency the same result seems
to follow; for the final good is thought to be self-sufficient. Now by
self-sufficient we do not mean that which is sufficient for a man by
himself, for one who lives a solitary life, but also for parents,
children, wife, and in general for his friends and fellow citizens,
since man is born for citizenship. But some limit must be set to this;
for if we extend our requirement to ancestors and descendants and
friends' friends we are in for an infinite series. Let us examine this
question, however, on another occasion; the self-sufficient we now
define as that which when isolated makes life desirable and lacking in
nothing; and such we think happiness to be; and further we think it
most desirable of all things, without being counted as one good
thing among others- if it were so counted it would clearly be made
more desirable by the addition of even the least of goods; for that
which is added becomes an excess of goods, and of goods the greater
is always more desirable. Happiness, then, is something final and
self-sufficient, and is the end of action.

Presumably, however, to say that happiness is the chief good seems a
platitude, and a clearer account of what it is still desired. This
might perhaps be given, if we could first ascertain the function of
man. For just as for a flute-player, a sculptor, or an artist, and, in
general, for all things that have a function or activity, the good and
the 'well' is thought to reside in the function, so would it seem to
be for man, if he has a function. Have the carpenter, then, and the
tanner certain functions or activities, and has man none? Is he born
without a function? Or as eye, hand, foot, and in general each of
the parts evidently has a function, may one lay it down that man
similarly has a function apart from all these? What then can this
be? Life seems to be common even to plants, but we are seeking what is
peculiar to man. Let us exclude, therefore, the life of nutrition
and growth. Next there would be a life of perception, but it also
seems to be common even to the horse, the ox, and every animal.
There remains, then, an active life of the element that has a rational
principle; of this, one part has such a principle in the sense of
being obedient to one, the other in the sense of possessing one and
exercising thought. And, as 'life of the rational element' also has
two meanings, we must state that life in the sense of activity is what
we mean; for this seems to be the more proper sense of the term. Now
if the function of man is an activity of soul which follows or implies
a rational principle, and if we say 'so-and-so-and 'a good
so-and-so' have a function which is the same in kind, e. g. a lyre, and
a good lyre-player, and so without qualification in all cases,
eminence in respect of goodness being idded to the name of the
function (for the function of a lyre-player is to play the lyre, and
that of a good lyre-player is to do so well): if this is the case,
and we state the function of man to be a certain kind of life, and
this to be an activity or actions of the soul implying a rational
principle, and the function of a good man to be the good and noble
performance of these, and if any action is well performed when it is
performed in accordance with the appropriate excellence: if this is
the case, human good turns out to be activity of soul in accordance
with virtue, and if there are more than one virtue, in accordance with
the best and most complete.

But we must add 'in a complete life. ' For one swallow does not
make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short
time, does not make a man blessed and happy.

Let this serve as an outline of the good; for we must presumably
first sketch it roughly, and then later fill in the details. But it
would seem that any one is capable of carrying on and articulating
what has once been well outlined, and that time is a good discoverer
or partner in such a work; to which facts the advances of the arts are
due; for any one can add what is lacking. And we must also remember
what has been said before, and not look for precision in all things
alike, but in each class of things such precision as accords with
the subject-matter, and so much as is appropriate to the inquiry.
For a carpenter and a geometer investigate the right angle in
different ways; the former does so in so far as the right angle is
useful for his work, while the latter inquires what it is or what sort
of thing it is; for he is a spectator of the truth.